


you are the shattered mirror

by cherrysconesforsimon



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst, First Kiss, Good for them, M/M, Moments of fluff, Oneshot, apparently i 'emotionally ravaged' my partner with this fic, it's what michael d. stortion would have wanted, these bitches gay, wrote this in a day and finished at one in the morning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:13:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27743536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherrysconesforsimon/pseuds/cherrysconesforsimon
Summary: Inside his jacket, Gerry used one hand to pop open the gasoline. He took a step closer. “Am I now?”It rolled its eyes. “How adorable of you, this rebellious little stunt. I am all you have left of your Michael. He is in me as ashes are in a fire.”Gerry shook his head. “You are nothing compared to who he was.”In which Gerry loses the man he loves most, and must confront the distorted reflection.
Relationships: Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley, Gerard Keay/Michael | The Distortion
Comments: 29
Kudos: 76





	you are the shattered mirror

**Author's Note:**

> Do be advised that this is not the lightest of fanfictions, but then again, The Magnus Archives isn't exactly the lightest subject matter in and of itself.  
> CW for death, swearing, grief, very brief mention of suicidal ideation, vomit mention, 'it' pronouns, degradation (not in a sexual way), and blood  
> wow those content warnings make this fic sound way worse than it actually is lmao

The yellow glow of streetlights protruded through the blinds and into the small office, the inescapable and perpetual brightness of London. They were the only lights in the office, horizontal slats that fell on the cluttered desk. Despite everything he knew about the world, and about the place of fear and monsters within it, Gerry felt most comfortable in the dark. 

The Institute was empty at this time of night. The quiet washed over him; gentle, unlikely to hurt him. He’d drained a few cups of coffee and then set himself to work, pouring over statements as the sky outside had dimmed and dimmed and then fell into black. Tattooed fingers, trembling as they always did nowadays, struggled to pull apart the corners of the old and dusty papers, scrawling down notes about connections and Leitners and whether the statement was even real or fake. 

For most of the week, it had just been him. Gertrude left to stop a ritual in some Russian place, a Spiral attempt he believed, and he’d fought to come with her. When she didn’t let him, though, he’d thought immediately of how nice spending a week with Michael could be. Maybe Gerry would spend normal hours at the Institute. 

But then- and he still seethed when he thought about this, shaking with billowing rage that threatened to cloud his vision- Gertrude insisted  _ Michael  _ come along with her. Gerry protested this, of course. Michael didn’t have any experience stopping rituals, he was barely aware of the Fears at all, and this was a good thing. Gerry didn’t want to burden him with that knowledge, not like his mother had done to him. 

And so Michael had gone. He and Gertrude went on some plane to Russia, and all week Gerry attempted to visualize what possibly could have been happening there. He was unable to imagine Michael with his soft brown cardigans and gently falling curls, his soft voice and infectious laugh, doing the deeds required to stop a ritual. It would haunt Michael forever. 

Would he even be the same when he returned?

Gerry jerked in his chair, startled by the turn of the doorknob. The Institute was old and had barely changed since its founding, everything squealed obnoxiously when it moved. His hand instinctively wrapped around the handle of the machete that Gertrude kept under her desk. 

But he knew the woman who stepped through the door, and breathed a sigh of relief at the familiar white hair. She carried with her a small briefcase, likely filled with papers and statements. 

“Gertrude- you’re back.”

If he were to be honest, Gerry always felt relieved when he saw Gertrude step into the office. She’d made an enemy of many an avatar, not to mention becoming older every day, although still managing to retain her strength. 

She nodded and set the briefcase down on the desk. Gerry gathered the papers he’d been working with and set them to the side. Gertrude wore a hard expression, but this was nothing out of the usual. 

And yet, something seemed off. Gerry fidgeted with one of the many rings around his fingers. “So, ah- where’s Michael? Did he go home straight away?”

Gertrude was silent. She adjusted her glasses on her nose and unclasped the sides of the briefcase.

Gerry suddenly became nervous, an alarm blaring in his mind that he didn’t know how to turn off. “Gertrude, where is he?”

“I’m sorry, Gerard.”

Gerry’s body became numb, a tingling, unfeeling mess of bone and flesh and tattoo. He shut his eyes tightly, shaking his head. “What- what does that mean? What do you fucking mean?” For the first time since entering the office, Gertrude looked at him straight on, and Gerry opened his eyes. They locked with hers in a moment of calm, the grayness and quiet before a storm. “Gertrude, where is Michael.”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I really am.”

In a burst of flame-bright energy, Gerry stood and pushed the chair back from the desk. It knocked into the bookshelves behind him with a loud  _ thud.  _ He slammed his palms into the desk, now towering over Gertrude. “What. Did. You.  _ Do _ .”

She sighed. “I did what had to be done, Gerry.”

“No- no, no, no.” Gerry lifted his hands to his face, taking a step back. “No, no.  _ No _ .”

“We stopped the ritual. For now, the world is safe. He-”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Gerry spat. “Don’t you dare say that to me. He- he has to be alive. He  _ has  _ to be alive, don’t you get it? This was supposed to be  _ me,  _ not him. Michael has to be alive.” The last few words were said with his voice shaking, frantic and grasping for anything to hold on to. His breaths became unsteady and empty. Without a chair now, Gerry dropped to the floor. 

“I’m sorry.”

And then the rage. It was unlike anything he’d ever felt before, threatening to rend him from limb to limb, split him open by his seams. He wanted to punch her, he wanted to throttle this old woman, he wanted to tear her apart and scream and scream while he did so. 

But he didn’t. Instead, he sat there on the floor, trembling, barely breathing. “Was it an accident?”

Gertrude took an audible breath. “No.”

The world stopped. Everything took a breath, everything was paralyzed; Gerry couldn’t imagine a single person laughing or smiling at that moment, a single bird singing  _ anywhere.  _ Michael liked birdsong. He liked the way the birds would echo it through the trees, like one entity, one being. Michael read on park benches and listened for hours as the day cycled through early morning and then noon and, sometimes, evening. Gerry would join him on some of these days, trying to forget about everything else. 

Michael.  _ His  _ Michael, who smiled like a blazing sun and laughed like the wind. 

What authority did Gertrude believe she had to take Michael away? Away from a world that so desperately needed a good person- away from Gerry? He curled into himself, forehead on his knees. Maybe, maybe if he never opened his eyes, maybe if he never looked up, none of this would be real. 

“Leave.”

“Gerry, are you sure that-”

“ _ Leave _ .”

He heard footsteps, then the squeal of the doorknob, then the click of it closing, and then once again- silence. A heavier silence than he’d ever felt before, because for the first time in years, Gerry was truly alone. 

\- - -

_ “So,” the man said, giving him a lopsided smile. “You’re the Gerard I’ve heard all about.” _

_ Gerry shook his outstretched hand. His fingers were long and slender, and Gerry could feel a vein where his hand closed around the back. “All bad things, I hope?” _

_ The man was young, likely around Gerry’s own age, and even taller than him, probably over six feet. He wasn’t intimidating in the slightest, though; with long and lanky limbs that didn’t seem to quite fit correctly, blond hair that fell in a halo of curls around him. “Depends on how you define ‘bad.’ I’m Michael.” _

_ Gerry let go of his hand. “And ah- you can call me Gerry, if you’d like.” He paused. “That’s what I have my friends call me.” _

_ Gerry had been less than enthused when Gertrude mentioned getting a new assistant. The poor things always seemed to get weeded out so quickly, and besides, who needed a third assistant when Gertrude had  _ him?  _ He did more than any of those pretentious bastards ever did, walking around the archives as if they knew everything because they’d taken a library studies course or two.  _

_ But Michael seemed different. Softer. His eyes flicked up and down Gerry, likely taking in the outfit he wore to try to scare most people off, faking being tough with his black hair and spiked platform boots.  _

_ “I like your style,” Michael said. “I tried to go punk for a while, and honestly, it didn’t go very well,” he laughed. Michael had the strangest laugh Gerry had ever heard; there was a melodic tone to it, a musical rise and fall that must have been divinely crafted. “But it suits you.” _

_ Gerry spoke out loud instead of inside his head, a mistake he often found himself making. “Your laugh. It’s nice.” _

_ Michael pressed his lips together and looked down at the floor, although the edges of them curled slightly upward. “Thank you, uh- most people just think I laugh like a headache, really.” _

_ “That’s ridiculous,” Gerry said. “If your laugh is what a headache sounded like, I would have zero use for Advil.” _

\- - -

Gerry hated his flat. 

He used to find it endearing- at least, Michael convinced him it was so, convinced him that the drafts from the windows enabled them to curl up under a blanket, convinced him that it was  _ fine  _ the oven didn’t work properly, that’s just an excuse to get some takeaway. And Gerry would smile, because everything seemed okay when he was with Michael. 

Three weeks. Three weeks since the night in the office. Every day, Gerry would walk into the Institute and stay there as long as possible, saying a quick hello to Gertrude and then working alongside her in silence. They didn’t talk anymore; Gerry was afraid of what he would ask. He didn’t want to know how it had happened. He didn’t want to know if Michael suffered. 

If Gerry avoided the cluster of assistants’ desks, he could ignore the memories. At work, he could lose himself. Gerry would track down Leitners and destroy them, taking less precautions than he did before, barely caring if he lived or died. Somehow, he was still alive. A cruel joke from the universe, perhaps. 

He kept the lights off at home. Like a ghost, he drifted through the dark rooms in his flat, only looking at what he needed to. If he focused too long on any one space, it would become an echo of Michael. The last book he’d been reading was still open and face down on the coffee table. Potted plants placed around the living room had been gifts from Michael, attempts to brighten up the room, but now they were beginning to wilt. Michael existed in the dip in the sofa and the crumpled blankets, the drawers of his bedroom dresser, the washed dishes, everything. 

Michael had his own flat, of course. Gerry didn’t have any idea what was happening to his flat and couldn’t bring himself to go there. They’d never lived together, never cohabitated for extended periods of time. And yet, his ghost was woven into everything in Gerry’s tiny little life. 

\- - -

_ Two knocks on the office door.  _

_ Gertrude had already left for the night, and Gerry sat in the corner of the room on a stool, running his fingers along the spines of books on the shelves, looking for one in particular. His back stiffened when he heard the knocks. Fairly recently, he’d pissed off a Hunt avatar, and they in particular had trouble letting go of a grudge.  _

_ Gerry swallowed. “Who is it?” _

_ “Oh, sorry, just uh- just Michael.” _

_ The dread left him immediately. The best thing Gerry could’ve hoped for, so late at night, was to hear Michael’s voice. Since they’d met just two months prior, they’d already formed a close relationship; bonding over the eccentricities of their Head Archivist and memorizing each other’s coffee orders from the nearby cafe. Gerry never clarified that, no, he didn’t technically work for the Institute, but they took their lunch breaks together often. It turned out they had a lot in common- despite their different looks, to say the least.  _

_ Gerry would be lying if he didn’t admit an-  _ attraction-  _ to Michael. It was probably nothing, just a quick crush, one he couldn’t help getting for someone so purely wonderful.  _

_ “Oh, yeah, come in then.” _

_ He felt thankful to have company this late- the hour neared to nine thirty. But then Gerry thought, why was Michael also here this long after work hours? _

_ The door squeaked open on rusty hinges, and in walked Michael, carefully holding two mugs. He went to Gerry and held one out. “I made tea, if you want it.” _

_ Gerry took it immediately. The mug was warm in his hands, and he held it close, letting that warmth run through him. “Thank you,” he said. He took a breath in, smelling the steam that rose from the mug. “Mm- mint?” _

_ Pulling up the chair from the desk to the bookshelf, Michael sat down and nodded. “Yeah, that’s your favorite, right?” _

_ Gerry took a sip. “Oh god yes,” he laughed, the hot tea travelling through him like a liquid radiator. They sat for a moment in peaceful silence. The office was dim, lit only by the desk light, and the wood around them smelled of cedar; the old pages of books and statements filling the room with a particular scent, one of dust and history and quiet. “So, uh- why are you here this late.” _

_ Michael sighed and leaned back in the chair. “I just didn’t really want to go home. I know I’m not exactly getting paid to stay late, or anything, but it’s- interesting. These statements are strange, you know? I almost get the feeling they’re connected, sometimes, but that’s probably just nonsense,” he said, shaking his head. “There were a few I wanted to read tonight, though, and so I did.” He paused. “And uh, and you’re still here too. I didn’t exactly mind the thought of seeing you.” _

_ Gerry smiled, likely with a blush on his face, looking down at his boots. Suddenly he was filled with a fierce protectiveness for Michael. He didn’t want to curse Michael with knowledge of the Fears, didn’t want him to live every day in a haze of worry and dread.  _

_ “Yeah,” Gerry said. “Drugs and mental illness make for a hell of a ghost story.” _

_ Michael chuckled. “Okay, yes, totally true.” He thought for a moment. “You really don’t think there’s anything deeper?” _

_ Hesitant, Gerry shook his head. “I- I don’t think so, no. I’ve been here long enough to know if there was.” He felt bad about lying to Michael, but the alternative was worse. The burden of truth weighed on his shoulders every day. It influenced his entire life, guided the course of all his decisions. Michael deserved better than that.  _

_ “Well, anyway, why are you here this late?” Michael asked.  _

_ Gerry gestured to the shelves behind him. “Trying to find a book, actually, related to a statement. I think we have it in here somewhere, I used it once, but everything is a bit… cluttered, if you couldn’t tell.” _

_ Michael raised his eyebrows. “I- I could tell. Gertrude is a fan of neglecting file labels, I see.” _

_ “That’s the dementia,” Gerry laughed. Michael frowned, obviously concerned, and Gerry burst out into another round of laughter. “Jesus, Michael, she- she doesn’t actually have dementia,” he said between breaths.  _

_ Michael rolled his eyes but without any malice. “The poor woman is like, eighty years old! You can’t just joke about that,” he said, but obviously Gerry could, because Michael was laughing as well, that lilting song of his that Gerry so loved.  _

_ Their knees touched. Neither of them moved apart.  _

_ Gerry sucked in a shaking breath. “You want to- to grab coffee or something, sometime?” _

_ “We do that several times a week,” Michael said. “So, uh, yeah?” _

_ Gerry shook his head. “No, I- I meant like…” _

“Oh,”  _ Michael said with a heavy exhale. For a split second, Gerry was convinced he’d fucked everything up like he usually did, but then Michael nodded. “How about I do you one better?” _

_ “...Okay?” _

_ “What if we went to dinner- maybe Friday or sometime next week. Whenever you’re free.” _

_ Gerry didn’t have the courage to say that he would absolutely clear any scheduled event to have dinner with Michael. The world could burn from the Desolation or become a damn global circus for all he cared. “Friday works for me.” _

\- - -

Gertrude dropped a stack of papers on the edge of the desk. “I need you to find and destroy a Spiral Leitner.”

Two months now. 

Gerry sighed and ran his fingers through the tangled, dyed mess of his long hair, his rings catching on a few strands. He tried to remember the last time he’d showered. It didn’t really matter. “Where?”

“Last known location is with a man in East London,” Gertrude said. “Not much hope left of saving him, considering he’s read it nearly cover to cover already. His name is Clark Morrison, works in construction.”

Gerry grabbed a post-it note and wrote all this down- East London, Clark Morrison, construction worker. He had more information than usual already; the job should be easy. That was a relief at least- he needed that. The last few Leitners had been elusive, leaving him tracking and navigating for days on end. The advantages of that were the distraction, the goal. A prize to keep his eyes on instead of looking back at the painful, glorious past. 

Spiral books were good. They confused him, muddled his mind. He was too tired to take a hard job this week. Sleep refused to come to him these days, and he’d begun throwing his blankets on the floor and laying there, too bothered by the chill of his bed without someone else in it. 

Despite the many hours spent together (and the many nights), they’d never labeled what they had. Gerry knew that every Leitner led him to the brink of death, or worse. He didn’t want to be responsible for Michael’s pain. Gerry never had the courage to utter the word  _ boyfriend _ \- that sort of committed, long-lasting love seemed like something he wasn’t allowed to have. Michael wanted that, of course. He did from the start. 

But Gerry, foolish and naive, tried to  _ protect  _ Michael. Hoped the lack of a solid relationship would dull some of Michael’s grief when Gerry inevitably died first. 

It’s cruel, how the world works.

Gerry wasn’t supposed to be alive. He’d prepared for death dozens of times over, stared into the faces of countless otherworldly monsters. Gerry lit things on fire and watched them burn with the taste of gasoline on his tongue. 

But Gertrude had thought Gerry was too important, too knowledgeable, and thought Michael to be  _ expendable.  _ Of less worth. The very concept sickened Gerry, made him nauseous beyond what a Fear could ever cause. Michael was worth everything. 

Gerry should have died. He’d always been ready to burn, sometimes even  _ wanted  _ it. Michael should have been safe, protected, loved. 

A few searches provided the information that Clark Morrison currently worked on the construction of a large manor in East London. Gerry easily found the address. A plan began to formulate; he could sneak into the site and match Morrison to his pictures on social media. People who owned Leitners almost never went anywhere without them, often addicted to the fear and the power it gave them. He could steal the book there, get out, and burn it without any problems. 

\- - - 

_ A gust of cold wind blew through the street, illuminated every few steps by a feeble streetlight. Gerry loved the look of historic London at night; shadows fell on old brick buildings, gas lamps placed along the pavement. He breathed in and smelled smoke, heard muffled chatter from inside a restaurant they passed. He felt calm in these moments, invisible.  _

_ The only thing different tonight than most nights was the patter of footsteps beside him as well. Michael stepped along with Gerry, slowing down his pace considerably to make up for his longer, lankier legs. They talked about something, drifting between subjects, their conversation flowing easily and without effort.  _

_ The dinner hadn’t felt like a first date. They knew each other well already, and talked as they normally did, but with the addition of a lovely atmosphere and a waiter to pour them far too expensive wines. The experience didn’t exactly match either of them, but it was time spent with Michael, and therefore time spent well.  _

_ In a moment of quiet, Michael pointed off to the side of the pavement. The old buildings had given way to a small park, closed off by wrought iron and lit by only a few gas lamps. Gerry had passed by it a few times before, but only during the day; the oasis of grass presented itself as otherworldly at night. _

_ “I go there to read, sometimes,” Michael said, a slight smile on his face. “It’s nice- Sundays, in particular. A lot of people strolling around without a destination, you know? And none of them pay attention to you, sitting there on the bench. It’s peaceful.” _

_ “Didn’t take you for much of a people-watcher,” Gerry said.  _

_ “I’m not, really; it’s the feeling more than anything. Being by yourself, but not alone.” _

_ They both stood at the entrance to the quiet park, surrounded on all sides by brick buildings except the front, a pocket between all the tightly packed homes and shops. Gerry stepped inside and felt the soles of his boots on the soft grass. “Let’s walk around, then.” He moved onto a path, one that winded about the park, lit by flickering lamps.  _

_ “Ah- sure, okay,” Michael said, and he fell into a slow walk beside Gerry, hands stuffed into the pockets of his grey woolen jacket.  _

_ They neared a wooden bench set just back from the path. Michael gestured to it, his hand pale and tinged with yellow under the soft light. “That’s uh, that’s where I sit to read.” _

_ Without speaking a word about it, Gerry led him to the bench. Not another single person walked around the park. Through some windows, he could see lights on or even the faint shadows of people walking around, but they were alone in what was essentially a courtyard. He liked that; he wanted it that way.  _

_ The two of them sat down on the bench, pressed together. It’d been a long time since someone had sat this close to Gerry voluntarily. He tensed when an unexpected hand was placed gently on the top of his knee, but then relaxed into the touch. He leaned further into Michael’s shoulder, bony yet somehow comfortable.  _

_ “What have you been reading?” Gerry asked. _

_Michael’s thumb moved on Gerry’s knee, a soft back and forth motion that made him tense again for a moment. Quickly it became calming, an unfamiliar but relentlessly beautiful_ _touch._

_ Michael hummed for a moment. “Ah- poetry, lately, actually.” _

_ “Really? People watching, poetry, seems there’s much I don’t know.” _

_ “Oh dear god,” Michael laughed. “I sound like one of  _ those  _ people.” _

_ Gerry raised an eyebrow. “Like one of what people?” _

_ Michael shrugged. “You know- oh, I’m so deep, I read poetry and people-watch and took a philosophy class in my first year of uni.” _

_ “Let me guess, a Nietzsche fan?” _

_ “Oh  _ lord _ ,” Michael groaned. “I hate this character, I’m done being him.” _

_ For a moment, they laughed, a quiet and full sound in the soft darkness of the park. When the silence fell again, it was a comfortable one. Absentmindedly, Gerry reached his arm behind Michael’s shoulders; fingers playing with the long curls of his hair. Sighing contentedly, Michael leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut.  _

_ Gerry’s mind filled with only one thought- the thought of kissing Michael. _

_ His fingers moved to trace along Michael’s sharp jawline. Eyes closed, Michael’s head followed the movement of Gerry’s fingers, tilting up so he could run the edge of a black-painted nail across the underside of his jaw. Michael made a soft noise, barely audible, but one that sent an electric shock through Gerry.  _

_ Gerry turned on the bench so his torso twisted to face Michael. Without contact, Michael’s eyes opened again, staring at his with an expression so deep and lovely that it made his stomach turn. Gerry placed his hand on Michael’s cheek. With a small smile, Michael wrapped his fingers around Gerry’s wrist, leaning into him.  _

_ “Can I kiss you?” _

_ It didn’t matter who asked. The answer was, of course, yes.  _

\- - -

The sounds of saws and power drills grated against Gerry’s ears as he crouched behind a piece of flat lumber. For a moment, he wished he’d brought ear plugs, but knew these would have jeopardized his stealth anyway. He’d heard far worse from a variety of terrifying, unspeakable entities, and didn’t really give a shit about any of them. 

It was warm in London that day. Not boiling hot, but just enough for Gerry to be uncomfortable as a ray of light passed through the unfinished wooden ceiling and fell onto him. He watched and he waited. 

Gerry matched the picture he had of Morrison to the man himself almost as soon as he’d seen him. Medium-tone skin, dark, curly hair. Unkempt stubble cast a strangely shaped shadow on his face and neck, but he’d no doubt found the right man. 

The manor didn’t seem to be all that far along in construction, currently built like a house of cards in only wooden supports, vertical lines that stretched on for what looked like about four floors. It let all of the sunlight in without shielding, but with the secluded area of the site, he couldn’t see a singular person walking outside. Just him and the group of construction workers. 

What little powers of the Eye Gerry could use, he did; closing his real eyes and using that of the Fear to try and detect some essence of the Spiral at the site. He easily found it, strongly emanating from a bag on a table at the heart of the site. The bag must have been Morrison’s, and carried the tome he was searching for. Gerry opened his eyes again and touched the dusty ground, slightly disoriented. 

Nearly an hour passed before the workers began to move. He checked the time- almost noon. They must be on their lunch break. Chatting amongst themselves, the construction workers slowly left the site, likely heading to a spot nearby. 

Gerry watched with a keen eye as Morrison finished up his work. He was more jittery than the others, his eyes constantly bouncing from left to right, fidgeting and jerking with his body. Gerry doubted the safety of letting this man near a wood saw, but would have to let that go. He didn’t come here to save anyone. He came to steal a Leitner. 

Someone called to Morrison from right outside the manor. He was several steps away from the table and, subsequently, the bag, and his eyes flicked between the bag and the person before he eventually left to join the rest of the group. Gerry sighed in relief- his job had just been made far easier. Get in, get out, and light something the hell on fire. 

Gerry stood and first stretched out his muscles before doing anything else, cramped from crouching for so long, ready to move at a moment’s notice. He watched the construction workers walk away until they were out of sight. 

Careful to avoid nails and tools scattered about the ground, Gerry walked over to the table. He didn’t quite smile- that was a luxury he could no longer afford- but his face had something of a look of satisfaction, a rush that only finding and then destroying a Leitner could provide. 

Gerry had only just reached into the bag when something shifted at the edge of his vision. 

His head snapped up, and immediately his knife was out. Sometimes avatars felt the coming destruction of something related to their patron and tried to stop him; it’d happened before. 

In front of him was a yellow door that  _ certainly  _ had not been there before. 

Gerry pulled his hand out of the bag. The other rested protectively on his lighter. The door made no signs of motion. It wasn’t connected to anything- not set into a wall, just a frame and yellow wood on dusty ground. He hadn’t seen this from a Fear before and didn’t know what to make of it. 

His hand gripping tighter on the knife, Gerry took a few tentative steps forward. He carried a small container of gasoline with him as well, important in his- profession. If the thing made no further moves, he could always do what he did best; set it aflame. 

And then, it cracked open. Inhumanly long fingers curled around the door, scraping with pointed tips. Gerry froze in place, his breathing halted.

The thing stepped out from behind the door, and Gerry felt himself tremble.

“Michael?”

It made him sick. It made the world spin. It made him want to throw up and collapse and close his eyes and never open them, a searing pain in the back of his head. 

And yet it was him. He knew that long blonde hair, he recognized the curvature of his nose and jaw, how could he not? How could Gerry not weaken at the sight of the man he’d spent hours staring at, spent so long loving? 

It was  _ him  _ and he was  _ it  _ and Gerry never, ever wanted to look away. 

The thing smiled. It was not Michael’s smile. It was pointed and held none of his softness, none of his light. A single sharp finger tapped on the bottom of his jaw as if it were thinking. “ _ Gerard Keay. _ ”

For the first time in months, Gerry heard Michael’s voice. He wanted to sob with relief, but it was wrong; it was so wrong. The voice sounded like it had gone through a distorted filter and it bent and waved in too many directions, echoing off the shell of the manor and splitting and rearranging itself into colors and shapes. 

“Is that you?”

Gerry could barely force his voice above a whisper. Despite the fear in his heart, he’d lowered his knife, and it hung uselessly at his side. He could never use it, not against Michael, not against this. 

The thing took a step closer. It was tall, taller than Michael, by at least a few inches. Enough that he had to look down to meet eyes with Gerry. And Gerry couldn’t look away from those eyes- he recognized the shape, but they were not the deep tones he knew from before. They shifted and shimmered like holograms, hypnotic if one were to look too long. 

“Poor Gerry misses his Michael, hm?”

Gerry felt like he was going to be sick. The thing continued. “Oh, look at you.” It laughed, and hidden beneath the distortion was a melodic tone he still loved, a certain music nothing else could replicate. “You’re so-  _ small.  _ Something of a pathetic little creature.”

This couldn’t be Michael. He couldn’t be him. It looked like him and talked like him and yet did neither of those things. 

“I thought you died,” Gerry said, moisture pooling in his eyes. 

The thing that was  _ almost  _ Michael took another step forward. He leaned forward and uncurled those long, pointed fingers, extending them under Gerry’s chin. He stiffened, unable to breathe properly, not because of any pressure but from his own tension. 

“The man you know as  _ Michael _ .”

It pierced the underside of Gerry’s draw with the pointed end of his finger. Gerry winced and felt a trickle of blood flow down his neck. 

“ _ Is dead. _ ”

He took the fingers away from under Gerry’s head and stepped away. Gerry pressed against the small wound with his hands, shaking. This could not be happening. This was worse than anything. Anything. Anything. 

A tear fell freely now. “Then- then what  _ are  _ you?”

The thing tilted its head, staring at Gerry as if he were an interesting specimen. “I am the Spiral. I am the Distortion. And I am still Michael, as he is me. Michael is dead, but I am him still, and he will  _ always  _ be me.”

Gerry shook his head. “No, no, no, that doesn’t- that doesn’t make any  _ sense.” _

“It doesn’t have to.”

Gerry saw in this fracture of a being the man he loved, and everything about Michael,  _ his  _ Michael flooded through his mind. 

His Michael, who smiled like a blazing sun and laughed like the wind. 

The creature chuckled. “All this, Gerard, and you still want to kiss me? You still want  _ your  _ Michael, so flawed and human. All this, and yet I can feel how much you want me back again. You’d take this sick, twisted version of me just to still have something, is that it? You  _ pitiful  _ little thing. I can feel it in you, your confusion. It’s tantalizing, seeing me. I could do so much to you and you would let me.” It took a step forward. “I could torture you and- you would just  _ let  _ me, you are so desparate.” Another step. The thing slid the tips of its fingers through Gerry’s hair, scratching painfully at his scalp. Gerry cringed but couldn’t move from where he stood. 

“Let me take you, Gerard.  _ Gerry.  _ Come through the door, would you? You’d go insane, but you could be with  _ me. _ ” The thing breathed in, his other hand sliding under Gerry’s arm and around the small of his back. The hand felt sharp and angular, like it had too many bones. “I can taste your fear. Your confusion.  _ Let me _ .”

And Gerry almost did. 

But then he wrenched away from the sharp, prying hands, taking a few stumbling steps backward and hitting the table. “No. No.” Blood dripped from out of his hair, budding from the scratches. “You’re just- you’re just the shattered mirror. The warped reflection of him.”

It smiled. “Is that how it is?”

Gerry was filled with a sudden, white-hot anger. “You could  _ never  _ be him. You could never be half of who he was.  _ Fuck you _ .”

The thing stepped aside and opened the door, obviously expecting him to usher himself in, defeated. But it couldn’t understand Gerry. Couldn’t understand what he  _ felt  _ for his Michael Shelley. 

Gerry shook his head. “You can’t control me if I’m not afraid.”

The thing’s smile faltered. “You  _ are  _ afraid.”

Inside his jacket, Gerry used one hand to pop open the gasoline. He took a step closer. “Am I now?”

It rolled its eyes. “How  _ adorable  _ of you, this rebellious little stunt. I am all you have  _ left  _ of your Michael. He is in me as ashes are in a fire.”

Gerry shook his head. “You are nothing compared to who he was.”

He dropped his knife and lunged forward with the gas in one hand, his open lighter in the other. He managed to dump out a significant amount of the fluid before it stepped inside the door. Gerry dropped the lighter on the ground, already foreseeing the flames and the sensation of a burn, but the door was gone. 

Michael- whatever form he had taken- was gone. And Gerry stood as the fire lit the ground, climbing higher and higher. In the empty shell of a manor, quiet and seemingly frozen in time, the flames licked at Gerry’s legs. The thing was gone, and he had been left with this inferno. Ashes in a fire. 

Forcefully, spitefully, Gerry grabbed the book from the bag and threw it down into the flames. He watched it wither. 

The warped reflection; the shattered mirror. 

\- - -

_ “Gerry!” _

_ Hearing his name called, Gerry turned back from where stood across the street from the Institute, about to go meet Gertrude at the airport. Michael was running down the stone steps. He jogged across the street, narrowly missing a car, whose driver stopped and yelled something. Michael grimaced and shouted an apology before continuing to run, his strides long and awkward.  _

_ Michael, foolish, lovely Michael, stopped in front of Gerry and panted for a moment. “I didn’t- I didn’t realize- you were going somewhere,” he said between breaths. “Didn’t get a chance to say bye.” _

_ Gerry smiled. “It’s only for a couple days, you know.” _

_ “I- I know,” Michael said. “But, you never know. Airplane crashes happen. Aggressive French men throw baguettes in the street- you know how much a hardened baguette can hurt.” _

_ “Do I?” _

_ “Well, I’m sure you can imagine it,” Michael laughed. “Anyway, this is my rather morbid way of saying goodbye. So- goodbye.” _

_ Gerry threw his arms around Michael and pulled him into a tight embrace. With no one else had he ever been the one to initiate contact like this, but with Michael, he did so often. Gerry tucked his head into the crook between Michael’s head and chest, causing passerbys to have to walk around them on the city pavement. He couldn’t care any less. “Right,” he mumbled into Michael’s chest- “see you in a few days.” _

_ Michael thought they were going to an Institute sister location to meet with a few Head Archivists from different countries. In reality, Gerry and Gertrude were going to be stopping a ritual in the catacombs. This was true for any of the trips he went on- but this could be the last time he’d ever see Michael.  _

_ Another minute longer and they had to separate. Gerry still grasped on to one of his hands, which always seemed to fit perfectly into his. “Bye, then.” _

_ Michael gave him a lopsided smile. “Can you do me just one favor?” _

_ “Yeah- of course.” _

_ “Don’t die, would you?” _

_ And Gerry hadn’t.  _

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! please drop a kudos or a comment if you liked this, but you're under no obligation of course, i appreciate that you just read this all the same.  
> if you liked this fic- and shameless self promo coming here- maybe check out my in progress slow-burn Magnus Memorial. i promise it won't disappoint! (and if it does, tell me why!). again, thank you, and yeehaw <3


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